They all happened on the same day. And that day was a Saturday, the red
Saturday on which, in the unforgettable football match between Tottenham
Hotspur and the Hanbridge F.C. (formed regardless of expense in the
matter of professionals to take the place of the bankrupt Knype F.C.),
the referee would certainly have been murdered had not a Five Towns
crowd observed its usual miraculous self-restraint.

Mr Cowlishaw--aged twenty-four, a fair-haired bachelor with a weak
moustache--had bought the practice of the retired Mr Rapper, a dentist
of the very old school. He was not a native of the Five Towns. He came
from St Albans, and had done the deal through an advertisement in the
Dentists' Guardian, a weekly journal full of exciting interest to
dentists. Save such knowledge as he had gained during two preliminary
visits to the centre of the world's earthenware manufacture, he knew
nothing of the Five Towns; practically, he had everything to learn. And
one may say that the Five Towns is not a subject that can be "got up" in
a day.

His place of business--or whatever high-class dentists choose to call
it--in Crown Square was quite ready for him when he arrived on the
Friday night: specimen "uppers" and "lowers" and odd teeth shining in
their glass case, the new black-and-gold door-plate on the door, and
the electric filing apparatus which he had purchased, in the
operating-room. Nothing lacked there. But his private lodgings were not
ready; at least, they were not what he, with his finicking Albanian
notions, called ready, and, after a brief altercation with his landlady,
he went off with a bag to spend the night at the Turk's Head Hotel. The
Turk's Head is the best hotel in Hanbridge, not excepting the new Hotel
Metropole (Limited, and German-Swiss waiters). The proof of its
excellence is that the proprietor, Mr Simeon Clowes, was then the Mayor
of Hanbridge, and Mrs Clowes one of the acknowledged leaders of
Hanbridge society.

Mr Cowlishaw went to bed. He was a good sleeper; at least, he was what
is deemed a good sleeper in St Albans. He retired about eleven o'clock,
and requested one of the barmaids to instruct the boots to arouse him at
7 a.m. She faithfully promised to do so.

He had not been in bed five minutes before he heard and felt an
earthquake. This earthquake seemed to have been born towards the
north-east, in the direction of Crown Square, and the shock seemed to
pass southwards in the direction of Knype. The bed shook; the basin and
ewer rattled together like imperfect false teeth in the mouth of an
arrant coward; the walls of the hotel shook. Then silence! No cries of
alarm, no cries for help, no lamentations of ruin! Doubtless, though
earthquakes are rare in England, the whole town had been overthrown and
engulfed, and only Mr Cowlishaw's bed left standing. Conquering his
terror, Mr Cowlishaw put his head under the clothes and waited.

He had not been in bed ten minutes before he heard and felt another
earthquake. This earthquake seemed to have been born towards the
north-east, in the direction of Crown Square, and to be travelling
southwards; and Mr Cowlishaw noticed that it was accompanied by a
strange sound of heavy bumping. He sprang courageously out of bed and
rushed to the window. And it so happened that he caught the earthquake
in the very act of flight. It was one of the new cars of the Five Towns
Electric Traction Company, Limited, guaranteed to carry fifty-two
passengers. The bumping was due to the fact that the driver, by a too
violent application of the brake, had changed the form of two of its
wheels from circular to oval. Such accidents do happen, even to the
newest cars, and the inhabitants of the Five Towns laugh when they hear
a bumpy car as they laugh at Charley's Aunt. The car shot past,
flashing sparks from its overhead wire and flaming red and green lights
of warning, and vanished down the main thoroughfare. And gradually the
ewer and basin ceased their colloquy. The night being the night of the
29th December, and exceedingly cold, Mr Cowlishaw went back to bed.

"Well," he muttered, "this is a bit thick, this is!" (They use such
language in cathedral towns.) "However, let's hope it's the last."

It was not the last. Exactly, it was the last but twenty-three.
Regularly at intervals of five minutes the Five Towns Electric Traction
Company, Limited, sent one of their dreadful engines down the street,
apparently with the object of disintegrating all the real property in
the neighbourhood into its original bricks. At the seventeenth time Mr
Cowlishaw trembled to hear a renewal of the bump-bump-bump. It was the
oval-wheeled car, which had been to Longshaw and back. He recognized it
as an old friend. He wondered whether he must expect it to pass a third
time. However, it did not pass a third time. After several clocks in and
out of the hotel had more or less agreed on the fact that it was one
o'clock, there was a surcease of earthquakes. Mr Cowlishaw dared not
hope that earthquakes were over. He waited in strained attention during
quite half an hour, expectant of the next earthquake. But it did not
come. Earthquakes were, indeed, done with till the morrow.

It was about two o'clock when his nerves were sufficiently
tranquillized to enable him to envisage the possibility of going to
sleep. And he was just slipping, gliding, floating off when he was
brought back to realities by a terrific explosion of laughter at the
head of the stairs outside his bedroom door. The building rang like the
inside of a piano when you strike a wire directly. The explosion was
followed by low rumblings of laughter and then by a series of jolly,
hearty "Good-nights." He recognized the voices as being those of a
group of commercial travellers and two actors (of the Hanbridge Theatre
Royal's specially selected London Pantomime Company), who had been
pointed out to him with awe and joy by the aforesaid barmaid. They were
telling each other stories in the private bar, and apparently they had
been telling each other stories ever since. And the truth is that the
atmosphere of the Turk's Head, where commercial travellers and actors
forgather every night except perhaps Sundays, contains more good stories
to the cubic inch than any other resort in the county of Staffordshire.
A few seconds after the explosion there was a dropping fusillade--the
commercial travellers and the actors shutting their doors. And about
five minutes later there was another and more complicated dropping
fusillade--the commercial travellers and actors opening their doors,
depositing their boots (two to each soul), and shutting their doors.

And then out of the silence the terrified Mr Cowlishaw heard arising and
arising a vast and fearful breathing, as of some immense prehistoric
monster in pain. At first he thought he was asleep and dreaming. But he
was not. This gigantic sighing continued regularly, and Mr Cowlishaw had
never heard anything like it before. It banished sleep.

After about two hours of its awful uncanniness, Mr Cowlishaw caught the
sound of creeping footsteps in the corridor and fumbling noises. He got
up again. He was determined, though he should have to interrogate
burglars and assassins, to discover the meaning of that horrible
sighing. He courageously pulled his door open, and saw an aproned man
with a candle marking boots with chalk, and putting them into a box.

"Oh!That!" said the man at length. "That's th' blast furnaces at
Cauldon Bar Ironworks. Never heard that afore, sir? Why, it's like that
every night. Now you mention it, I do hear it! It's a good couple o'
miles off, though, that is!"

At five o'clock, when he had nearly, but not quite, forgotten the
sighing, his lifelong friend, the oval-wheeled electric car, bumped and
quaked through the street, and the ewer and basin chattered together
busily, and the seismic phenomena definitely recommenced. The night was
still black, but the industrial day had dawned in the Five Towns. Long
series of carts without springs began to jolt past under the window of
Mr Cowlishaw, and then there was a regular multitudinous clacking of
clogs and boots on the pavement. A little later the air was rent by
first one steam-whistle, and then another, and then another, in divers
tones announcing that it was six o'clock, or five minutes past, or
half-past, or anything. The periodicity of earthquakes had by this time
quickened to five minutes, as at midnight. A motor-car emerged under
the archway of the hotel, and remained stationary outside with its
engine racing. And amid the earthquakes, the motor-car, the carts, the
clogs and boots, and the steam muezzins calling the faithful to work, Mr
Cowlishaw could still distinguish the tireless, monstrous sighing of the
Cauldon Bar blast furnaces. And, finally, he heard another sound. It
came from the room next to his, and, when he heard it, exhausted though
he was, exasperated though he was, he burst into laughter, so comically
did it strike him.

That afternoon he sat in his beautiful new surgery and waited for dental
sufferers to come to him from all quarters of the Five Towns. It needs
not to be said that nobody came. The mere fact that a new dentist has
"set up" in a district is enough to cure all the toothache for miles
around. The one martyr who might, perhaps, have paid him a visit and a
fee did not show herself. This martyr was Mrs Simeon Clowes, the
mayoress. By a curious chance, he had observed, during his short sojourn
at the Turk's Head, that the landlady thereof was obviously in pain from
her teeth, or from a particular tooth. She must certainly have informed
herself as to his name and condition, and Mr Cowlishaw thought that it
would have been a graceful act on her part to patronize him, as he had
patronized the Turk's Head. But no! Mayoresses, even the most tactful,
do not always do the right thing at the right moment.

Besides, she had doubtless gone, despite toothache, to the football
match with the Mayor, the new club being under the immediate patronage
of his Worship. All the potting world had gone to the football match.
Mr Cowlishaw would have liked to go, but it would have been madness to
quit the surgery on his opening day. So he sat and yawned, and peeped at
the crowd crowding to the match at two o'clock, and crowding back in the
gloom at four o'clock; and at a quarter past five he was reading a full
description of the carnage and the heroism in the football edition of
the Signal. Though Hanbridge had been defeated, it appeared from the
Signal that Hanbridge was the better team, and that Rannoch, the new
Scotch centre-forward, had fought nobly for the town which had bought
him so dear.

Mr Cowlishaw was just dozing over the Signal when there happened a
ring at his door. He did not precipitate himself upon the door. With
beating heart he retained his presence of mind, and said to himself that
of course it could not possibly be a client. Even dentists who bought a
practice ready-made never had a client on their first day. He heard the
attendant answer the ring, and then he heard the attendant saying, "I'll
see, sir."

It was, in fact, a patient. The servant, having asked Mr Cowlishaw if Mr
Cowlishaw was at liberty, introduced the patient to the Presence, and
the Presence trembled.

The patient was a tall, stiff, fair man of about thirty, with a tousled
head and inelegant but durable clothing. He had a drooping moustache,
which prevented Mr Cowlishaw from adding his teeth up instantly.

"They're my teeth," said the patient. And thereupon he opened his mouth
wide, and displayed, not without vanity, a widowed gum. "'Ont 'eeth," he
exclaimed, keeping his mouth open and omitting preliminary consonants.

"Yes," said Mr Cowlishaw, with a dry inflection. "I saw that they were
upper incisors. How did this come about? An accident, I suppose?"

"Well," said the man, "you may call it an accident; I don't. My name's
Rannoch; centre-forward. Ye see? Were ye at the match?"

Mr Cowlishaw understood. He had no need of further explanation; he had
read it all in the Signal. And so the chief victim of Tottenham
Hotspur had come to him, just him! This was luck! For Rannoch was, of
course, the most celebrated man in the Five Towns, and the idol of the
populace. He might have been M.P. had he chosen.

"Dear me!" Mr Cowlishaw sympathized, and he said again, pointing more
firmly to the chair of chairs, "Will you sit down?"

"I had 'em all picked up," Mr Rannoch proceeded, ignoring the
suggestion. "Because a bit of a scheme came into my head. And that's why
I've come to you, as you're just commencing dentist. Supposing you put
these teeth on a bit of green velvet in the case in your window, with a
big card to say as they're guaranteed to be my genuine teeth, knocked
out by that blighter of a Tottenham half-back, you'll have such a crowd
as was never seen around your door. All the Five Towns'll come to see
'em. It'll be the biggest advertisement that either you or any other
dentist ever had. And you might put a little notice in the Signal
saying that my teeth are on view at your premises; it would only cost ye
a shilling.... I should expect ye to furnish me with new teeth for
nothing, ye see."

In his travels throughout England Mr Rannoch had lost most of his Scotch
accent, but he had not lost his Scotch skill in the art and craft of
trying to pay less than other folks for whatever he might happen to
want.

Assuredly the idea was an idea of genius. As an advertisement it would
be indeed colossal and unique. Tens of thousands would gaze spellbound
for hours at those relics of their idol, and every gazer would
inevitably be familiarized with the name and address of Mr Cowlishaw,
and with the fact that Mr Cowlishaw was dentist-in-chief to the heroical
Rannoch. Unfortunately, in dentistry there is etiquette. And the
etiquette of dentistry is as terrible, as unbending, as the etiquette of
the Court of Austria.

Mr Cowlishaw knew that he could not do this thing without sinning
against etiquette.

Now, just as Mr Cowlishaw was personally conducting to the door the
greatest goal-getter that the Five Towns had ever seen there happened
another ring, and thus it fell out that Mr Cowlishaw found himself in
the double difficulty of speeding his first visitor and welcoming his
second all in the same breath. It is true that the second might imagine
that the first was a client, but then the aspect of Mr Rannoch's mouth,
had it caught the eye of the second, was not reassuring. However, Mr
Rannoch's mouth happily did not catch the eye of the second.

The second was a visitor beyond Mr Cowlishaw's hopes, no other than Mrs
Simeon Clowes, landlady of the Turk's Head and Mayoress of Hanbridge; a
tall and well-built, handsome, downright woman, of something more than
fifty and something less than sixty; the mother of five married
daughters, the aunt of fourteen nephews and nieces, the grandam of
seven, or it might be eight, assorted babies; in short, a lady of vast
influence. After all, then, she had come to him! If only he could please
her, he regarded his succession to his predecessor as definitely
established and his fortune made. No person in Hanbridge with any
yearnings for style would dream, he trusted, of going to any other
dentist than the dentist patronized by Mrs Clowes.

She eyed him interrogatively and firmly. She probed into his character,
and he felt himself pierced.

So she removed her bonnet, and he took it as he might have taken his
firstborn, and laid it gently to rest on his cabinet. Then he pushed the
gas-bracket so that the light came through the large crystal sphere, and
made the Mayoress blink.

Like all women of strong and generous character, Mrs Simeon Clowes had a
large mouth. She obediently extended it to dimensions which must be
described as august, at the same time pointing with her gloved and
chubby finger to a particular part of it.

"Yes, yes," murmured Mr Cowlishaw, assuming a tranquillity which he did
not feel. This was the first time that he had ever looked into the mouth
of a Mayoress, and the prospect troubled him.

He put his little ivory-handled mirror into that mouth and studied its
secrets.

"I see," he said, withdrawing the mirror. "Exposed nerve. Quite simple.
Merely wants stopping. When I've done with it the tooth will be as sound
as ever it was. All your other teeth are excellent."

"Now just listen to me, please," she said. "I don't want any stopping; I
won't have any stopping; I want that tooth out. I've already quarrelled
with one dentist this afternoon because he refused to take it out. I
came to you because you're young, and I thought you'd be more
reasonable. Surely a body can decide whether she'll have a tooth out or
not! It's my tooth. What's a dentist for? In my young days dentists
never did anything else but take teeth out. All I wish to know is, will
you take it out or will you not?"

"Gas!" she exclaimed. "You'll give me no gas, young man. No! My heart is
not good. I should die under gas. I couldn't bear the idea of gas. You
must take it out without gas, and you mustn't hurt me. I'm a perfect
baby, and you mustn't on any account hurt me." The moment was crucial.
Supposing that he refused--a promising career might be nipped in the
bud; would, undoubtedly, be nipped in the bud. Whereas, if he accepted
the task, the patronage of the aristocracy of Hanbridge was within his
grasp. But the tooth was colossal, monumental. He estimated the length
of its triple root at not less than 0.75 inch.

But he was in a panic. He felt as though he were about to lead the
charge of the Light Brigade. He wanted a stiff drink. (But dentists may
not drink.) If he failed to wrench the monument out at the first pull
the result would be absolute disaster; in an instant he would have
ruined the practice which had cost him so dear. And could he hope not to
fail with the first pull? At best he would hurt her indescribably.
However, having consented, he was obliged to go through with the affair.

He took every possible precaution. He chose his most vicious instrument.
He applied to the vicinity of the tooth the very latest substitute for
cocaine; he prepared cotton wool and warm water in a glass. And at
length, when he could delay the fatal essay no longer, he said:

He laughed. But it was a hysterical laugh. All his nerves were on end.
And he was very conscious of having had no sleep during the previous
night. He had a sick feeling. The room swam. He collected himself with a
terrific effort.

"When I count one," he said, "I shall take hold; when I count two you
must hold very tight to the chair; and when I count three, out it will
come."

Then he encircled her head with his left arm--brutally, as dentists
always are brutal in the thrilling crisis. "Wider!" he shouted.

And he took possession of that tooth with his fiendish contrivance of
steel.

There was no three. There was a slight shriek and a thud on the floor.
Mrs Simeon Clowes jumped up and briskly rang a bell. The attendant
rushed in. The attendant saw Mrs Clowes gurgling into a handkerchief,
which she pressed to her mouth with one hand, while with the other, in
which she held her bonnet, she was fanning the face of Mr Cowlishaw. Mr
Cowlishaw had fainted from nervous excitement under fatigue. But his
unconscious hand held the forceps; and the forceps, victorious, held the
monumental tooth.

"O-o-pen the window," spluttered Mrs Clowes to the attendant. "He's gone
off; he'll come to in a minute."

She was flattered. Mr Cowlishaw was for ever endeared to Mrs Clowes by
this singular proof of her impressiveness. And a woman like that can
make the fortune of half a dozen dentists.